The rasp of Your bow

The rasp of Your bow                                                                       

Like an old coat,
You hung me in the corner.
 
Now I’m collecting dust.
If I could only feel You
 
snug within me once more!
A fiddle mounted on the wall,
 
no music comes from me.
O to feel the rasp of Your bow!
 
Tuck me under Your chin;
let’s play a round or two!
 
A lump of clay once rolled in Your palms,
set aside, left unformed, hardening by the hour.
 
O to feel myself shaped by Your hands, 
as Your hands once shaped the language of Love.
 
O child of God, adjust yourself to the Beloved’s whims.
Believe it when He says He never leaves.